


A Gift For Burning

by casey-bee (vands88)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands88/pseuds/casey-bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets lonely sometimes, but John can pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift For Burning

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I have nothing to do with BBC's _Sherlock_ , nor am I making any money from this. This was just more fun than my dissertation.
> 
>  **A/N:** I haven't written fanfiction in a couple of years, I might be a little rusty. It's a metaphor minefield, you have been warned. Inspired partially by [Song](http://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2006/01/06/song-by-adrienne-rich/) by Adrienne Rich, and the title is taken from there. With endless thanks to [Lavellington](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavellington/pseuds/Lavellington) for editing.
> 
> (also posted on [livejournal](http://vands88.livejournal.com/311108.html) if you prefer to read there)

~

Most of the time, Sherlock can ignore the ache of loneliness. It sits snugly between his heart and his stomach and it is no more burden to him than say, carrying an extra layer of clothing on a chilly Autumn day. The ache is always there but it is also forgotten about among other, more important, things.

Sherlock wakes on a Sunday morning to find Loneliness demanding his attention, having crawled from his innards to sit defiantly on his chest. A crushing weight. Not one Sherlock can shrug off and ignore, not a burden he can push back down and forget about; no, this time the emotion has found an annoying amount of confidence.

 _At least I've nothing on_ , Sherlock sighs.

The last time it had struck, Sherlock had been sitting opposite a certain Doctor John Watson in a candlelit restaurant. It was halfway through an interesting murder case and the sudden, unwelcome presence had been far too distracting. As a consequence every thought process dragged for 3.2 seconds longer and had resulted in Sherlock overlooking several clues as to the identity of the murderer.

Thankfully at the crime scene, John had spotted the drop of blood on the business card and nudged Sherlock covertly with his elbow. A kind gesture, considering. Very kind. And John had given Sherlock a look akin to concern, asked after his wellbeing and let his hand brush ever so lightly over Sherlock's. The ache was appeased for a while, lost between his erratic heartbeats.

But that was over a month ago.

Now the loneliness desperately clings to his chest, whimpering regrets in the cold of Sunday morning. The cries echo through Sherlock's head as he drags himself out of bed, hoping as he makes his way to the bathroom that a shower might drown out the noise. It doesn't, of course.

 _John might be able to help_ , Sherlock thinks. John fixes things without meaning to; he is a doctor and a good man and fixing people is what he does. Last time, he hadn’t even known what was wrong but his sticking plaster of compassion made it better. _John is surgical glue that seals wounds shut._

Once suitably dressed, Sherlock slouches to the living room. Sherlock can hear the extra weight in his footsteps, like an elongated shadow refusing to budge even after the sun has set, darkening everything around it. However, he is confident that John will not notice the extra company as he is currently engrossed in the latest 3for2 Waterstone's bestseller. John peers over the top of the pages and greets him with a friendly nod before returning to Chapter 4.

 _Good,_ Sherlock thinks, _I can’t be dealing with the intricacies of the English language today._

Sherlock sprawls across the sofa and attempts to pacify his restlessness by making small deductions. John is a delight on Sunday mornings; the hair that smells of cheap coconut shampoo, the itchy wool jumper that makes him scratch his neck distractedly, the morning light through the window that makes the blonde strands of hair more predominant, and the trace of coffee and digestive biscuits that must linger on his lips. And those observations are all quite pleasing, but Sherlock is devastated to find that not only has loneliness followed him, it also crushes his chest even more painfully than before.

Sherlock is confused, uncertain as to why John hasn't made it better.

The shadow reverberates silently through the room, soft little whispers that flow through cells in his veins and particles in the air, _John, John, John_. A mantra of his name.

"John?" Sherlock ponders.

"Yes?"

Sherlock hadn't intended to utter the syllable aloud, yet alone voice it as a question, but now John is looking at him expectantly; waiting patiently for Sherlock to bark an order or to start an interrogation. The words weren't coming though.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

 _Great, now you’ve done it,_ Sherlock thinks as John puts his book down, _Now he knows something is wrong and he'll keeping asking until I answer and he'll smother me with the worry lines on his forehead._

Sherlock feels a giggle rising up in his chest, a sudden light-heartedness that's completely foreign and illogical. He suppresses it.

John steps closer. He kneels in front of Sherlock. John is perching on his knees, a half-formed question on his tongue and his eyes flickering over Sherlock's face with confusion as if trying to solve a puzzle.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" John asks, perplexed.

"Don't ask questions; I don't speak today. I'm fine," Sherlock says. Even if he could grasp the English language sufficiently, his feelings would dictate the conversation and his brilliant, rational mind would be reduced to following it.

"Right, yes, I think you're under the impression that that makes the slightest bit of sense to me."

"No, John. I know you don't understand." Frustrated, Sherlock turns to face the wall, his back to John. "Go away," he sulks.

Sherlock can sense John's mind processing a decision and through the silence of his friend, the cries of loneliness are louder than ever: _John, John, John_.

"No, I'm not leaving," John says at last.

His defiance in the matter does strange things to Sherlock's heart. _Is it beating too fast?_ Count. Yes. _Interesting_. John's compassion is intoxicating; a dizzying high.

"You're...bored?" John asks, "Or is it something else this time?"

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond to that, _There is a shadow that does not go away, but sometimes you make it better_. Or, _Your name is a mantra in my head_. Or, _I think I'm sad because I need you and one day you will leave_. Or, god forbid, _I am LONELY –_

He pulls his knees to his chest and clamps his hands over his ears to block out relentless thump of his heart and the screaming between: _John, John, John_. The single word is climbing up his spine, surfing through his blood, jumping across every neuron, and vibrating mercilessly through every particle of the air. It feels as if the shadow has crawled inside him, as if the ache has seeped into every untouched crevice of his being and _John_ is the language it speaks. It is complete, overwhelming, suffocating agony and Sherlock doesn't know why.

Can't breathe. Body shaking. Nausea. _A panic attack?_ Sherlock thinks. It hadn't been intentional.

But he feels a soft hand on his back, John, and it's warm and comforting and muffles the voice. The shaking subsides with every careful touch, but the words still sing through him, humming through his chest:

 _John, John, John..._

"John?" Sherlock's whisper is too raw, too vulnerable, to be coming from him. Perhaps his loneliness is speaking, "Please?" Yes, there it was; the little desperate voice of the feeling clawing its way out of Sherlock's shell to be heard, to be seen, to be touched.

Sherlock feels John slide closer and carefully, but confidently, wrap his arms around him. A cocoon. John does not speak but Sherlock feels his warmth gradually soothing every particle where his loneliness had screamed until the ache is nothing but a whisper beating in Sherlock's heart:

 _John._

  
~


End file.
